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A friend came to see me last night

I was in a room heavy with old wood and carvings and glass fronted bookcases —
the sort of room i haven’t seen in a long time

There was so much rich furniture that i felt i had no place to put it all

I moved the desk to be at right angles to the cupboard, one of the bookcases to beside the massive, carved-rosewood bed

And fretted if it all sat right

He walked into the room like he’d been there many times before. He said he’d heard i was sick

And lay down, comfortably stretched out on the bed whose carvings i had caressed with wonder.

So i got on the bed too, less intimidated by the richness, and sat to talk

he was displeased with me, that was clear. I was a bad correspondent, i was always lost in my own head, he got my news from somewhere else

‘Not that i mind’, he said ‘news from you is always so strange that i have to figure out what you’re actually saying, and that takes time i don’t have’

‘If you have so much inside that you can’t pay attention to real things, why don’t you write’, he said, in sorrow as much as anger,

‘then i’ll be able to read it later and know what you think’

I said nothing, aware he was a dream, afraid to commit myself to being revealed

We ate oranges, cut into sections by an unknown hand in an unfamiliar kitchen, while the late afternoon rays of the sun gleamed dull on the old red floor

All the doors were ajar, the windows flung wide

The glass fronted bookcases reflecting the carvings and shadows in the room, hiding more than showing the actual contours

His time with me ran out and he got off the bed

‘I have to go’, he said ‘write.’
Without specifying if i should write to him in particular or to the world in general

I finished the rest of the fruit on the plate, lingering orange-ness on my tongue

Stroked the carvings on the bed, paying special attention to those parts that were hidden from the light

And the dream was over